


Distance

by semaphoredrivethru



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-13
Updated: 2004-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphoredrivethru/pseuds/semaphoredrivethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first we saw each other at every opportunity. But as the years went on, it took a tragedy to show me how great the distance had truly grown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> For in_doms_eyes. I was challenged to write "distance" and this is what happened.

_Remember me when I am gone away,_  
 _Far away into the silent land;_  
 _When you can no more hold me by the hand,_  
 _Not I half turning to go, yet turning to stay._  
 _Remember me when no more day by day_  
 _You tell me of our future that you planned:_  
 _Only remember me; you understand_  
 _It will be too late to counsel or pray._  
 _Yet if you should forget me for a while_  
 _And afterwards remember, do not grieve:_  
 _For if the darkness and corruption do not leave_  
 _A vestige of thoughts I once had_  
 _Better by far you should forget and smile_  
 _Than that you should remember and be sad._  
~*~*~

At first, we saw each other at every opportunity.

The Nine, as we still called ourselves, never waited for premiers or award shows to get together; instead we celebrated the simple enjoyment of each other’s company when we could and the novelty of not being on location. A few of us even flew out for the solemn task of getting Elijah legally drunk for the first time. We were more than just friends, more than companions; we were like brothers.

But as time went on, some of those bonds loosened; such is the effect that distance has on the busy. It sounds so cold, I know, but that is how life goes and pretending otherwise is not very helpful to anyone. We lost none of our affection for each other, of course. If anything, we grew fonder once we were no longer living in one another’s back pockets.

It was nearly five years or so after the release of _Return_ that I first noticed our drifting apart. I was standing at the sink in my studio, cleaning off some brushes after a solid morning of painting, when I found my mind wandering to the old days. I missed my friends, I decided, and I longed to hear their laughing voices.

As I dried off my hands, I headed for the phone, bent on arrainging a visit. Orlando was on location, as were Elijah and Bean. So I called Astin.

“Oh hey, Vig,” he said, sounding distracted. I heard loud music in the background. “What’s up?”

“I just called to say hello,” I said.

“Alex, will you turn that crap _down?_ ” he said. “Sorry. You were saying?” 

I laughed; I remembered what it was like to have an adolescent in the house. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll let you go since you sound busy.” 

Sean sighed. “Thanks, man. Call you later?” 

I agreed and hung up the phone. Since my old phone had died, and taken all the stored numbers with it, I had to hunt up Dom’s number in LA. Finally, I found it. 

The phone rang at least half a dozen times and I was just beginning to wonder what happened to Dom’s answering machine, when he answered. 

“’Lo?” He sounded breathless. 

“Dom, it’s Viggo. Is this a bad time?” 

“No. Was just downstairs with the movers, and I had to run all the way up the fucking steps. Knew I should’ve left the phone in the kitchen.” 

I paused. “You’re moving?” I asked carefully. This was news to me. 

“Shit, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Sorry, man.” 

“It’s fine,” I said. “Where are you moving to?” 

“Billy’s got a spare room,” he said easily. “And I’m fucking tired of living alone in LA.” 

“Ah.” I really couldn’t think of anything else to say, and the line hummed quietly between us. 

“Look, Vig,” he said. “I need to get going. My flight’s in a few hours, and you know what a bloody hassle it is to travel any more.” 

“Sure, I’ll let you go,” I said quickly. “Let me know when you get in, okay?” 

“Check your email!” he said. “Gotta go; cheers!” 

“’Bye,” I said as the line clicked off in my ear. I stood there for a minute, just looking at the receiver in my hand. 

For some reason, I just didn’t have the energy to try Ian or John. 

~*~*~

When Liv got married, we all gathered together to celebrate her good fortune. I couldn’t remember exactly when the last time we had been together, and it seemed as though the younger members of our group were determined to make up for lost time; Orlando seemed determined to steal the bride away from her groom, twirling Liv around the dance floor as often as he could. Elijah kept trying to chat up one of the bridesmaids, but Billy and Dom kept breaking into the conversation with embarrassing stories about their fellow Hobbit, both real and imaginary. 

I sat off to the side with Ian, Bean, Astin, and John. I smugly ignored comments about boring old men; but when my young tormentors weren’t looking, I made use of my small arsenal of projectiles. My crowning achievement was getting a spitball to stick on the back of Dom’s head. 

In short, it was almost as though all of our separation had never happened. 

By the end of the night, after the bride and groom had left amidst catcalls and well-wishes, I was more than ready to make my unsteady way back to my hotel room. Dom and Billy were leaning against each other, both fast asleep, so I managed to get one parting shot in. The best part of it was that when I pulled Billy’s chair out from under him, Dom came tumbling after. 

“Oi!” Billy said. “What was that for?” 

“Goodnight,” I said. 

“Arse,” Dom said good-naturedly as he hauled Billy up. “Get your pissed self off to bed.” 

I laughed, and waved as I walked off. Looking back, I wish that I had paid better attention to that night. I wish that I had properly stored those last few hours when all of us would be together. 

Five months later, I was awakened at the lonely hour of 2:13 in the morning by the shrill ring of my phone. It rang three times – funny that I remember that – before I managed to fumble the receiver off the cradle. 

“Mmm, ‘lo?” I mumbled. 

The line crackled a couple of times, and I heard voices in the background, and a tinny, nasal voice calling a name. Then I heard someone on the other end take a deep, shuddering breath. Something about that sound reminded me of another late-night call, when Orlando’s mother had been hospitalized for a minor stroke a few years earlier. I sat up in bed, reaching for the light. 

“Hello?” I said. “Who’s there?” 

“Vig?” It was Dom, but his voice was scratchy. 

“What is it, Dom?” I asked, an instinctive panic rising in my chest. 

Dom said nothing for a few heartbeats, and then he began to sob. 

“Dom?” I said, not sure what else to say. 

“Vig,” he said. “Vig, what am I going to do without him?” 

~*~*~

There’s a joke I remember from years ago: _What three things are guaranteed to get a Christian into church? When they’re hatched, matched, and dispatched_.

For some reason, that joke came back to me as I looked around at the somber, pale faces of my remaining friends. Liv and her husband held their laced hands over the gentle swell of her pregnant stomach, and a hysterical part of me wondered if that would be the case of our group. 

Dom had said nothing since we had gathered on the steps of the church. He just nodded acceptance of our inadequate words, and limply submitted to the crushing hugs that we gave one another. I sidled up next to him, and found Dom’s clammy hand gripping mine tightly. 

Orlando muttered something, and Elijah handed him a cigarette. Eventually, our chatter died down, and we stood there in the early autumn sun, each lost in a fog of loss. A gust of cool wind went by, stirring our hair, and I looked at the horizon and the dark clouds that threatened on the horizon. 

The bells began to toll slowly, signaling that the service was about to begin, and we shuffled our way inside, moving to the front where the pews for family had been set aside. Dimly, I registered the priest giving a mass, though what he actually said was buried beneath my person fog of grief. We stood, and I realized we were singing _Amazing Grace_.

We sat, and someone pulled the hymnal from my numb fingers. I looked over at Ian, who smiled gently as he put the leather-bound book back in the cubby. The priest said it was time for the eulogy, as though more words could make us somehow feel better. Dom stood woodenly, and John clasped him by the hand briefly. 

Dom stood at the podium, his eyes closed for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. 

“I’d like to tell you,” he began, his voice cracking. “I’d like to tell you that the last thing Billy said to me was profound, but it wasn’t. In all reality, he cursed about being out of milk, because he wanted a bowl of Trix.” 

I smiled; Billy had always had a sweet tooth. 

“So he went out for milk, and I told him to be careful,” Dom said. “But I couldn’t tell the other driver to be careful, remind him that wet roads were dangerous.” 

The senselessness of it all still staggered me. That a light as brilliant as Billy had been taken away in a random car accident was still impossible for me to wrap my mind around, even after three days. I had tried time and again to put that feeling down in verse, but every time I began, I only got as far as “Billy” before I was overwhelmed by the desire to deny what had happened. Finally, I had admitted defeat. So instead of my own words, I had given Dom a photocopy from a poetry book Billy had given me for my birthday during filming. 

“I should talk about Billy’s sense of humor,” Dom was saying. “Or about the horrible concoctions he tried to pass off as food. I should go on about all the small things that made Billy. But I can’t, because my heart is gone, taken away with squealing tires and torn metal. Billy was my best friend, my soul mate… the part of me I never knew was missing until the day we met. Words can’t tell you what this emptiness feels like. 

“But Billy always loved life, and those who knew him knew he had a philosophical streak. So, instead of my own words, I’d like to read someone else’s. I’d like to think this is what Billy would have said.” 

Dom pulled out the folded paper I had given him. It was crumpled from being clutched and re-read countless times on my flight across the Atlantic. He smoothed it against the podium, and then began to read: 

“Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there...”

Dom’s voice faltered and he finished in a near-whisper that still carried throughout the church. 

“I did not die.” 

The service finished, and we eight remaining members of our forever broken fellowship stood to carry the closed coffin down the aisle and to the waiting hearse. The clouds had moved from the horizon to cover the sky, and a few drops fell as we deposited what remained of our friend. Moisture ran down my cheeks, and I raised my face to the sky. 

Dom stood beside me, and I looked at him. “I didn’t know,” I said. 

“No one did,” he said. “We were going to have a party and tell everyone then.” 

I sought for something to say, anything at all. But I still couldn’t find the words, not while looking at Dom’s lost face. His loss made mine pale in comparison, so I gave his shoulder a squeeze. 

“A party sounds great, Dom,” I said. 

He gave me a shaky smile. It didn’t last long, but I know I saw it. He sighed. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Vig,” he said.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said. “After the party.” 

We were friends, after all, and I was not going to let distance be an excuse any longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> _Poems quoted are “Remember” by Christina Georgina Rossetti and “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye_


End file.
